


Methods Of Acting

by Owlship



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Real Person Fiction
Genre: Acting, Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Frenemies, Moderately Antagonistic Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Out Of Character Most Definitely, Set During the Filming of Fury Road, Unsafe Sex, in a weird au where neither has a partner, this never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-14 14:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlship/pseuds/Owlship
Summary: There are two ways to do this. Either they own up to what they’re doing, or they uphold one of the oldest and noblest of acting traditions: pretending it’s all for a better understanding of their characters.





	Methods Of Acting

**Author's Note:**

> I still feel the urge to apologize for this because RPF still is borderline for me. May Charlize & Tom have mercy on my soul, and also never _ever_ read this.
> 
> Originally posted [on tumblr](http://v8roadworrier.tumblr.com/post/149200560371/on-knees-hands-together-the-working-out)!

It's still early in the shooting schedule; they're only just about to film the scene in the mountain pass, and Tom knows that somewhere in this sequence Max is supposed to trust Furiosa enough to help them get out of the canyon, but despite all the rehearsing and getting yelled at by Miller he can't truly see it.

Because when the camera is rolling, Charlize is Furiosa, and he knows what Furiosa's stake in this is- but when it's not? She's completely out of character in a flash, bubbly and energetic and sarcastic, and it's throwing him way way off, especially because Miller isn't telling them what they're supposed to be doing, at least not it terms that Tom's familiar with, especially because it's fucking hot in the desert and someone thought it was a good idea to give him a leather jacket and leather trousers and then stuff him into a metal box with six other people and a camera in his face.

So no, Tom has not been having a good couple of days. And he still doesn't _feel_ that Max trusts these people even the little bit he needs to to get them out of here.

They call a wrap when the sun's too low to do any more takes, and Charlize is all smiles as she commiserates with Courtney about the weird smell that's taken over the War Rig's interior, emoting entirely different like she's flipped a switch. Tom puts on a smile of his own as he pretends to listen to Riley and Nick chat about how their scene went, but his attention is still on Charlize.

"Hey," he says just as the van they usually trundle off the set in appears in a cloud of dust, sidling up close enough to make it clear he isn't talking to the group as a whole.

"Yeah?" It's completely incongruous to see Furiosa all over her face when nothing else about the character seems to have stuck.

"Stay a while? I want to go over the next scene without," Tom flicks his hand to indicate everything around them, unsure if the small gesture feels more like _Tommy_ or _Max_ , "All the lights and cameras."

Charlize frowns at him, shoulders sagging. "It's been a hell of a day, all _I_ want is to get back to my room and shower."

She's fully kitted up like Furiosa, missing only the mechanical arm already whisked away by a protective tech, but whereas she seems to have shaken the character off like it's nothing he can still feel Max lurking around himself, still feel his confusion and anger and fear.

"I'll drive you back," he offers. It's a long ride that none of them appreciate driving for, and with the sun already creeping down it'll be difficult to navigate the rutted dirt roads if they stay much longer.

"You _really_ want to do this tonight?"

Tom nods; they'll be moving on tomorrow, and he still doesn't know if Miller has settled on the name she'll be giving him for the next scene, but right now he thinks of being called a fool and feels his idea of Max rankle, going against where the scene is supposed to end up.

She sighs, and looks longingly at the van that's being piled into by Hoult and the girls- but whatever else he thinks of her, Charlize is dedicated to the work. " _And_ you're buying me a drink," she says.

"Deal," he agrees easily, and doesn't extend a hand to seal it with a handshake.

The crew politely ignores them as they loiter around the massive War Rig, focusing instead on securing and sweeping up the area for the next day. Actors are fickle and strange people, and no one cares overly much if he and Charlize have decided to spend some quality time out in the desert.

Tom paces and swings his arms and drinks down a bottle of water until the last of the techs clears out, leaving behind what he knows is the worst of their trucks for them to drive back in.

"You're really in it today, aren't you?" Charlize asks, a mix of amused and incredulous. She picks at the fingers of that green glove, halfway to taking it off until he snaps his hand out to stop the action.

"Furiosa doesn't have that hand," he says, a reminder he knows she heard enough during that fight sequence to have it drilled into her head by now.

She doesn't quite stick her tongue out at him, but it looks like she wants to. "What did you want to go over, Tom?" she asks, a slight emphasis on his name.

Tom realizes that he hasn't let go of her hand and does so abruptly. "This next scene," he says, and damn Max for having so few words that it's deadened his own tongue even when the cameras are gone, "None of it works, it doesn't feel right."

"We go into the canyon," Charlize says, "I give you the keys to the rig and you stop with the gun-waving. What else is there?"

She's being deliberately glib, because he knows that she cares about her character and the movie and has put thought into every action, but to hear her tell it now she's barely showing up to earn her paycheck.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. "Let's run through it," he says.

"Okay," she drawls, "We're starting where we left off, then?" Without waiting for his reply Charlize sticks her hands out in front of herself and pretends to be holding a steering wheel. "I made a deal up ahead," she says, but it's just her normal voice and inflection, no attempt to do anything but recite the words that have been scripted for them.

"No," Tom says sharply, because it's been a damn long day for him too and he has good reason to ask her to go over the scene, she doesn't need to _mock_ him. "We're doing it right." He grabs for the way-too-high-off-the-ground handle of the War Rig's door and swings it open.

"Is that really necessary?" she asks, and crosses her arms over her chest.

He doesn't answer her, only climbs up into the truck. He hears her sigh and mutter something to herself but after a minute she follows him up, settling into the driver's seat.

The girls in back are gone, the prop guns he's meant to be holding are gone, the truck is silent and still around them, Charlize is radiating tired displeasure. It still feels enough like what it needs to that Tom shakes himself out, lets himself slip back into being Max.

Charlize flexes her hands against the wheel and shuffles her weight, and when she looks back over at him she looks like Furiosa again.

They run through the scene as strictly as if there were cameras on them, and instead of the 'hint of humanity' that Miller had suggested he look for in this scene he feels only fear and anger from Max. It's entirely wrong, and they run it again. And a third time.

With every repetition Charlize puts less effort into it, maintaining her sense of character with a facade he sees right through, that would get booed off the stage back in primary school.

"You could at least-" he says, but cuts himself off.

" _You_ could at least tell me what it is you're looking to do here, Max," she shoots back.

Tom snaps his eyes to her, and she realizes her mistake. Mixing up names happens all the time, would be utterly unremarkable any other time, but right now- right now, it's been a long hard day, and he can't get behind the flow of the scene, and Charlize isn't _even trying._

He climbs out of the hatch in the floor, but rather than getting back into his seat to start from the top he crouches next to her, not liking and liking too much the fact that getting too close into her space like this sets something nervous back behind her eyes.

"I'm looking to get out of here alive, Furiosa," he says, "What about you?"

She looks at him steadily, and it's when he's looking for the green of her eyes that he realizes the sun has officially gone down, leaving them bathed in darkness. Charlize sets her chin and doesn't look cowed at all.

"I'm wishing I'd blown your head off back there," she replies.

"No you're not," Tom says, "You need me to make this work."

"One of the Wives can drive," she says flippantly.

He wants to put his hand on the back of the driver's seat and see how close he can crowd her until she turns away, wants to intimidate her into submission, but that's not the right response from Max any more than it is from Tom.

With a frustrated noise he backs away, catching his leg on the gearstick as he goes. It sees him stumbling, arms scrabbling for something to grab onto as he falls back against the passenger seat in an undignified and slightly painful sprawl.

Tom doesn't know what Charlize's immediate reaction is because he's busy scowling up at the ceiling, but after a beat of silence he hears her snort out a laugh.

And that's the last straw for him. He extracts himself from the heap he's fallen into and slams open the door, jumping down to the ground.

"Wait, Tom!" Charlize calls out, still laughing, and over the sound of his boots crunching against the ground as he heads for the truck he hears her climbing down out of the War Rig. "Come on, you know that was funny," she says, jogging a little to catch up with him. When he doesn't respond except to turn just enough to glare at her she sighs, and scrubs a hand through the fuzz on her head. "You're such a pain in the ass," she grumbles. "Okay look, I don't know what it is you're not getting, but let's run through it one more time, okay? I'll be good, I promise"

Tom scowls at her, aware that he's being patronized and not particularly happy about it. He does want to get this fucking scene worked out though, and it's either tonight alone save for her or it's in front of the entire rest of the cast and crew, Miller probably giving direction that sounds well and good until he's done talking and you realize it was mostly nonsense.

He rolls out his shoulders and takes a breath to steady himself. It's just the character getting to him, Max so caught up in his own pain and anger that it's leaking out into himself as well.

"Okay," he agrees, and she flashes a tight ‘I don't want to be doing this but I'm pretending to be nice about it' smile at him. "But we're going from the start."

Charlize scrunches her face up in confusion. "We have been," she says.

"No," he says with a shake of his head. "The actual start. I can't get the flow right, so we're going from the very top where we first meet."

Her entire body sags as she looks to the truck waiting to take them back to base longingly, but she only sighs. "Forget a drink, you're buying me the whole damn bottle."

Tom quirks a victorious little smile and doesn't object.

When filming, every scene gets broken down into a dozen little fragments, resetting to make sure the camera's captured this angle or that, pushing in on a reaction divorced from the action it was supposed to follow. But Tom got his start in the theatre, not the studio- he still prefers one uninterrupted segment of acting, still prefers to really get inside his character's head with no distractions, everyone he interacts with likewise entrenched.

It's nearly pitch black by now- they're so far from civilization that the stars are bright overhead, but the only real illumination comes from a pair of lights on the edge of the set that were thoughtfully left burning by someone on the crew so they don't break their overpriced necks and cause production to stop.

Tom shakes himself out hidden behind the War Rig's tank and waits for Charlize to start hitting the metal drum to start the scene, bouncing on his heels a little because he's going to work it out this time, he's sure of it.

Without the rest of the cast, without the props, it would feel a bit ridiculous if playing charades wasn't a time-honored training technique. He reaches for the fear and desperation Max feels and aims his imaginary gun at Charlize, then the empty space the girls should be. They talk out their actions and speed things up a bit- there's no need to go through Max interacting with an imaginary Angharad and Dag in real-time- but when it's time for Charlize to tackle him, she hesitates, breaking out of character.

"You don't really want to go through the fight, do you?"

He nods. A good chunk of the most difficult parts of the scene were done with their doubles, but they'd both wanted to do as much as they could, and learned the choreography just as well.

It's hard to make her expression in the dim light, but he's pretty sure she's rolling her eyes.

And then she's slamming into him, catching him off-guard which he has to admit is exactly what supposedly happens on-screen. Charlize doesn't hit as hard as Furiosa would, but she doesn't give him a soft landing, either.

There's no shotgun to scrabble over, but she whacks him across the face with her elbow- there's no one to shout that she has no hand, but she still keeps the green-screen glove out of the way- before putting her fingers to his throat and miming pulling a trigger.

He waits a beat, feels Max's relief that the gun has stayed unloaded, then reaches up to catch her arm when she goes in for another punch. Tom's hand wraps around her throat- carefully, the grip meant to look as if he's choking her without being dangerous, though he can still feel her pulse under her skin, feel her throat work as she swallows- and she snarls down at him. She's resting her weight on him, and he only notices how cold the desert night has become when he registers her bodyheat sinking through the layers of leather.

He bucks up and flips them, relinquishing his grip on her arm but not her neck. Here, Max would throw sand into her face, but Tom holds himself back, only putting his free hand on the ground.

Here, the girls would yank the chain attached to his muzzle and he'd be pulled off Charlize for the next switch-up of their fight, but the girls aren't there.

She's pushing against him, trying to get him off her- trying to get him to move to his next mark. He's not really holding her down, and to prove it he slides his hand off her neck, plants it into the sand besides her head.

"Tom," Charlize prompts him with, giving him a significant look.

They'd spent ages working out this fight scene, and it's something he knows he's done well on for the actual filming. It was easy to get inside Max's head for it- stay alive, get out of there, take down the threat but if you can don't kill anyone. There's no point to him lingering here; he already knows what's going on inside Max.

He rears back away from her, as if there's someone tugging him away, and she wriggles her way out from under him. There should be a shotgun to wrestle over, but instead it's only their hands, grabbing at and against each other.

Furiosa gains a pair of long heavy boltcutters that she tries to smash Max in with; Charlize swings her hand while she does her perfect dancer's turns, miming the action while he scrabbles back. Adhering so closely to the fight is part muscle-memory; they've rehearsed it enough times that he can feel exactly where the camera cuts away and they reset for the next take.

There is no camera this time, no one calling out direction. There's just Tom, exhausted from the long day and the hard work, and Charlize, pinning him for a second to the wall of the tanker, fighting over another imaginary gun.

Her hand covers his, fingernails biting in a little harsher than they really need to. He can feel her breath against his ear, panting from the exertion even this faked fight demands.

Tom waits for her to mime putting the gun against his head, jerks away as she ‘fires', and then rolls so he's slamming her up against the War Rig, arm against her throat.

She's snarling at him, chest heaving as she breathes. For the real take there had been blood on her face, dripping down to her teeth. He remembers the pause they'd built in here- so the camera could see both their faces, to get enough of a reaction shot for the audience- and thinking that Max had no idea what he was doing, no idea how to move from this hold to something that would really take the fight out of her.

The imaginary chain gets tugged on and he's pulled away again. Charlize kindly does not _actually_ knee him in the face, and in lieu of the chain she pulls her gloved hand across his neck, firm enough for him to throw his elbow back with some real force.

She grunts at the blow and he knows that if he's actually bruised her he'll have to listen to her bitch about it for days, despite the way she doesn't really care about things like that.

Then they're rolling, over and over in the sand. He pins her, arm across her chest and the other reaching alongside hers for the imaginary water-hose. She gets it first and mimes bashing him across the face with it, but it's the imaginary chain yanking that has them rolling again.

Furiosa is supposed to end up on her stomach, but Charlize doesn't manage to twist around this time. Tom puts the imaginary gun to her head anyway, but this isn't how the scene was supposed to go. It shouldn't throw him, but it's been a long day and his grasp of Max is growing tenuous which is exactly what he _doesn't_ want if he's going to work out the canyon scene.

She stares up at him, and whether she's in character or not he couldn't say, only knows that looking into her face is a bad idea for Max.

It's not a great idea for Tom, either, if he's being honest with himself.

The fight is over; they're supposed to hear the approaching war party and move on to the next scene. He thinks for a second that he can hear the drums of it, but it's only his pulse pounding in his ears.

"Do you think Max ever had this problem?" Charlize asks, a complete non sequitur that has him frowning in confusion and breaking further out of character. She wriggles where she's trapped under his thighs and- oh. He's grown hard at some point during their mock fight.

Tom should push himself up and away, but she doesn't seem to mind that he's still pressed over her like this, and it's not like the contact is unpleasant.

"...No," he says after a moment of thinking it over. Not fighting for his life like this, anyway.

"Well," she drawls, "You were looking for his motivation, right?" She wiggles again, and stretches her arms over her head, posing. "Might as well explore _all_ the angles."

"It's not a love story," is what he comes out with, because Miller had been pretty clear about that as they went over the storyboards and workshopped. Their characters end up respecting each other, caring probably as much as someone fucked in the head like Max _can_ care about another person, but it's not a romance.

Charlize scoffs. "Who said anything about love?"

He knows already that this isn't the answer to the problems he's been having with the scene looming ahead of them. Maybe by the time they're filming the end Max has noticed that Furiosa is beautiful and thought about her the way Charlize is suggesting, but not now, not yet.

Tom expects his cock to go back down as the adrenaline of the mock fight dwindles, but he's still hard, and Charlize is under him warm against the cold desert air, looking up at him like she has no place better to be, looking at him like it's a challenge.

"Okay," he says, because fucking around with your co-stars is practically a sport in Hollywood, never mind that they're currently in fucking Namibia rather than anywhere near California, and it's not like he hasn't thought about it.

She licks her lips, and Tom wonders if she's been thinking about it too.

There are two ways to do this. Either they own up to what they're doing, or they uphold one of the oldest and noblest of acting traditions: pretending it's all for a better understanding of their characters. Tom doesn't think he can imagine the Max he plays actually doing this, fucking on the sand besides the War Rig with a woman who'd nearly blown his head off, but he won't know until he tries, will he?

He leans down to bring his face close to Charlize's, watching her expression, the smirk on her lips and the way she's looking at him through her lashes like she's on one of her modeling gigs, smoldering for a camera. She moves one of her hands to his shoulder, and he shakes his head. "Furiosa doesn't have that hand."

Her expression loses the artifice as she laughs disbelievingly, "You are _such_ an asshole." But she slides her arm so her elbow is crooked behind his neck anyway, gloved hand out of the way as if it doesn't exist, and tugs him the last few inches down to kiss her.

It feels as much like a fight as rolling around had, but this isn't choreographed, isn't faked. Their lips are chapped from all the damn sun and wind and Tom is pretty sure there's sand in his mouth, but if Charlize has any objections she doesn't voice them.

After so much time without anything, he figures Max would probably be desperate, sloppy. Who knows when the last time he'd been with a woman was- Tom doesn't think he was having many flings- and he's still barely remembering his humanity, here. So he pours that into the kiss along with his own frustration over working with Charlize and in the desert and with a director who's crazy in an unfamiliar way and without a real script.

She pushes back, bites at his lip and bucks up under him, her free hand moving like she's going to touch him before he grabs it, presses it down into the sand.

Tom pulls back and looks at her for a moment, feels the way she's breathing heavily under him. "How would Furiosa do it?" he asks.

"With someone like Max?" Charlize replies. "She'd drive him like the Rig."

He hums, considering the answer, and presses his lips against hers again for something more bite than kiss. Then he pulls away entirely, siting his weight back on his heels. "Turn over," he says, "She lost the fight, remember?"

"Asshole," she shoots back, but doesn't say no, doesn't leave. She stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowed like she's studying him, then turns so she's on her stomach.

Her ass is right under his crotch now and he presses down into the curve of it a little, his dick giving a pulse of interest at the feeling. "You know," Tom says conversationally, "You keep talking about assholes, I might take it as a suggestion."

Charlize huffs a sharp laugh. "Don't you dare."

He wouldn't, not out in the desert with all this fucking sand and no lube, but he grinds down against the soft swell of her ass again anyway. She squirms, twisting to look over her shoulder at him like she's evaluating whether she needs to actually be worried, but whatever she sees in his face apparently isn't enough for alarm.

Tom wraps his hands around her hips and tugs her up, until she's on her hands and knees. "Furiosa doesn't have that hand," he reminds her, reaching over to tap at the green glove over her forearm.

She tries to elbow him but the angle is all wrong, and she begrudgingly slides down from her hands to her elbows. "I'll take away one _your_ hands if you keep that up," she grumbles, but she tilts her hips up into the press of his body despite the annoyance in her voice.

The fake brand is still glued down to her skin, and for Max that sight would probably send him up and away. Tom doesn't have any particular feelings about it one way or another, except a desire to not get a mouthful of latex when he kisses the bare curve of her neck.

Charlize lets out a small gasp, then rolls her head to the side to give him more access, and he washes off enough of the dust to taste her actual skin. He slides his hands from her hips up along her body, the hardened leather of her costume's middle piece molded to the curve of her waist but without much give, until he reaches her breasts and cups his hands around the soft weight of them.

It's cold, and she seems as into this as he is; it's not a surprise to find her nipples already hard, peaking through the fabric of her shirt. He swipes a finger over one, back-and-forth, until she rolls her hips back.

"Are all blood-bags so into foreplay?" she asks, a demand in her out-of-breath voice.

Tom huffs against her neck and bites down, gentle enough to be barely more than the feeling of teeth against her skin. She sucks in a breath, and he takes his hands off her chest to reach for her belt. Belts, plural; why the hell do the costumes for this movie need so many belts?

Charlize starts to spread her legs, not so much helping him undress her as just showing her eagerness, but his knees are still caging her in. It would be too much effort to get her trousers down low enough for her to get any sort of decent spread, anyway.

With the belts undone he tugs the leathers down to her knees, pulls down the practical underwear she's wearing, and reaches a hand between her thighs.

"Wait," she says when his fingers have barely brushed the bare skin around her pussy- he wonders if Furiosa shaves, not that it matters- and he freezes immediately. "Wait, Tom, your hands are _filthy._ "

He relaxes, the spike of worry dissolving away. "Hmm," he hums out, drawing his hand away like he needs to get a look at it; she's not wrong, every inch of visible skin on both of them is covered in dirt and grease and makeup. "Better take care of it, then."

Tom holds his hand in front of her face and imagines her expression, trying to decide if she'd look more incredulous or annoyed. But if she wants his fingers to be clean before he touches her, she's going to clean them herself.

He thinks she mutters something to herself but he doesn't catch it, and a second later she's sucking two of his fingers into her mouth anyway.

Fuck, just the wet heat of her mouth is enough to have his hips stuttering forward, and he wonders if he shouldn't have suggested she blow him, instead. Except if Max is already unlikely to fuck Furiosa he's definitely not going to let her near his dick with her teeth, and they're still pretending this is about their characters.

Charlize swirls her tongue over his fingers and then sucks harshly, and he groans out loud.

He's pretty sure she's smiling smugly, but he's certain his fingers are clean now and tugs them away, dragging against her lips as he goes. When Tom reaches for her pussy this time she doesn't object, only makes a low noise of her own when he slides through her folds.

She's wetter than he'd though she might be, and he wonders if the fight had turned her on as well, if she'd been thinking about this for a while. He searches around, spreading her slick wetness as he goes, until he finds her clit and then rubs right over it, sliding the draping hood over the nub and wondering if she's the type to be too sensitive for something so direct.

She only makes a breathy moan and pushes into it, eager. The heat of her is inviting on his fingers compared to the chilly air around them, and he wonders if this really is a good idea.

Tom braces his free arm around her chest and just rubs at her for a while, working her up and trying to make up his mind. He's so hard he aches a little and Charlize certainly seems willing, and this is really not going to help him during filming tomorrow but he's not sure anything is going to at this point.

His costume quite sensibly has only a single belt, and he's adept enough at undoing the lace-up fly by now that doing it with his left hand isn't much more of a challenge.

"How would Furiosa react to being fucked on her knees in the sand," Tom asks, growling the question right into her ear and wrapping his arm heavy around her again, keeping her in place.

"Depends on how good of a fuck it is," she replies without missing a beat. "Think Max is up to the challenge?"

He doesn't bother answering with words, only shifts his hips forward so the head of his cock brushes against her pussy. Charlize twitches into it, arching her back under him.

When he slides inside her cunt he groans deeply; she's hot and wet and tight around his dick, and he gives her only the length of time it takes for him to pull back out to adjust to him before he's thrusting into her hard and fast.

She gasps when he slams in the first time, then moans when his pace doesn't let up. Tom keeps his fingers on her clit but doesn't bother to actually move them, letting the jostling of their bodies supply the stimulation.

"Fuck," Charlize breathes, "Tom, god- knew you were wound too tight."

He growls without words, unsure if he's using his own frustration or Max's to fuel his movements, suspecting that it doesn't really matter one way or another. She isn't complaining anyway, squeezing her pussy down around him and rocking back to meet him, and he wonders if he's going to make her come from this.

That thought is enough to have him moving his hand again, circling around her clit while he keeps snapping his hips against hers, driving his cock in deep and listening for her noises to guide him to finding the best angle. She lets out a shuddering moan and her cunt flutters around him and Tom smiles to himself, repeating the motion.

"Fuck, Tom," she gasps, and then- he doesn't know what she says but he's pretty sure it isn't English, and Tom doesn't think he's encountered anything as hot as knowing he _fucked the language out of someone._

He rubs roughly over her clit until Charlize moans wordlessly and grabs at his arm around her chest, her pussy spasming around his dick as she comes.

He doesn't change his pace, just fucks through her orgasm and revels in the way he can feel her pussy twitching, how everything is even wetter than before. She slumps when her peak passes, but Tom only shifts his hand off her clit to grab her hip, keeping her up and stable.

He thinks about his options, and then pulls out of her to sit back on his heels, gently tugging with his hands to encourage her to follow.

Charlize sighs a little, but sits up with him and twists around to look at him, a question on her face. He hadn't really thought about how an orgasm would look on her but it agrees with her; she looks softer, more relaxed, a little bit like when they're hanging out with the rest of the cast and she's had a drink or two.

Tom leans forward and kisses her, far gentler than he had the last time, and rather than seeming like they're fighting the passion feels comfortable, inviting.

"Come on," he says, "Easier if you face me."

"I thought the whole point was Furiosa at your mercy," she says with an amused lilt to her voice, and he snorts.

"It's not your character that's the problem," he replies, though whether he means it's _his_ character or it's _her_ in general that is the real problem he's not entirely sure.

She quirks an eyebrow but doesn't say anything, only shuffles off his lap to turn around, tugging the leather of her trousers down until she has just enough freedom of movement to straddle him. Charlize wraps her arms around his neck and then grinds her hips down, her pussy sliding hot and wet against his cock.

Tom gasps at the contrast from the cold night air and then reaches down to guide himself back inside her, letting her body weight pull her down until he's buried to the hilt.

"Suppose I have to do all the work now, hmm?" she says, but her hips are already rolling against his, her eyelids lowering in pleasure as she starts moving of her own accord.

He runs a hand up her spine until he's cupping the back of her head and pulls her in for a kiss, letting the lazy movements of her hips dictate the pace. He thinks about bringing his cleaned hand down to her clit but he can feel how much contact she's making when she grinds down against him and leaves it be, instead wraps his fingers just under the swell of her ass where it meets the muscle of her thigh, lending support for her movements.

It was good before, thrusting into her with abandon and having the thrill of knowing he was making her come, but it's good like this too, slower and easier, the changed angle and increase in her control meaning he can feel her pussy clench down around him with every up-stroke, like she doesn't want his cock to leave even as she pulls away.

Tom doesn't think he's going to last very much longer, not with the slick heat of her mouth against his in tandem to the feeling of her around his dick, the little noises she's making against his lips that he swallows down.

He starts kissing the side of her jaw when she breaks away to gasp, rubs his chin against her throat to let his stubble scratch at her skin. Charlize tightens her arms around him for a moment before relaxing again, and that's an interesting enough reaction that he keeps moving down the line of her neck, sucking kisses just gently enough not to leave a mark.

It's a shame her costume reveals so much of her neck, she'd look lovely with a dark bruise on her pale skin.

Tom reaches the edge of her shirt and realizes that he's on her left, that this is all covered from sight by the arm apparatus. It takes him only a few seconds to decide to hell with it- it won't be seen, and if it is… the makeup artists have covered up worse.

Charlize jolts against him and gives a hoarse-sounding cry when he sucks fast and hard at her skin, and the feeling of how her pussy squeezes down and the noise she's making and the way she's pressed entirely up along his front has him coming with a jerk.

He doesn't meant to bite down on the meat of her shoulder as he comes but, well, he was going to have left a mark anyway.

"You _ass_ ," she hisses, "If that bruises I'm throwing you under the wheels."

Tom licks his lips and says nothing, just rides out the rush of his orgasm until she pulls away from him and his softening cock. He's pretty sure she didn't come a second time despite being on her way there, but before he can offer assistance Charlize swipes her fingers through the mess of cum and slick between her thighs and groans unhappily.

"The costumers are going to kill us," she says.

He glances down at himself, the leather trousers he'd barely pulled out of the way enough to free his cock now smeared along the front with suspicious fluids.

"Shit," he agrees as he tucks himself away, but he eyes the way hers are pushed far enough away from the mess to still be clean, save the sweat and dirt that only adds authenticity anyway. "I could help you with that."

Charlize quirks an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. Eating someone out after he's come inside them isn't precisely his favorite way to do it, but it's not the worst either.

"Alright," she agrees, "I'm not getting down on the sand, though."

He waves a hand for her to stand up and she does, and it takes a bit of arranging to find a good angle but then Tom is licking the mess off her thighs with broad strokes of his tongue, slowly making his way towards her pussy.

He laps up their combined fluids from her folds and then keeps going, laves his tongue over her clit so she gives a surprised stutter of her hips. Charlize doesn't try to say any token protest like she doesn't need him to do this, only braces her hands on his shoulders and relaxes into it with a low sigh.

After the though occurs to him he slides the fingers already covered in her back up to her cunt, slipping inside when he doesn't hear any objection. He doesn't attempt to fuck her with them, just curls them forward and rubs against her walls while licking and sucking at her clit until her hips sway against him.

She comes less dramatically this time, just a harsh grunt and a spasm around his fingers, but she pets over his head like she's pleased enough before stepping back.

"Well," Charlize says as she bends down to slide her trousers back up, "Thanks for that."

Tom rubs at the sticky mess on his face and wonders if there are any wet wipes in the crew truck. Probably, considering how much fucking sand there is everywhere. "I still owe you that drink?" he asks as he gets back to his feet to go check said truck, since he's definitely not feeling up to trying to go through the scene again.

She huffs a laugh. "Oh yeah, big time."

He hears her walking behind him, then the sudden cessation of buzzing from the lights as she shuts them off. The darkness is all-consuming now, the little light in the truck's open door the only thing holding it at bay.

Charlize stumbles into him as she makes for the passenger side of the truck, a brush that has to be deliberate considering how graceful she normally is.

"I might be persuaded to let you split the bottle with me," she says, and then flashes him a wicked little grin. "Maybe we can even improv again."


End file.
